The Great Feelings Debacle
by radiobeans
Summary: (Or, Lockwood Isn't As Well-Adjusted As He Seems) / Anthony Lockwood is generally composed, efficient, and dignified - or, well, he tries to be. But not even he can escape the clutches of the mythical 'feelings' that people talk about, and now that he's in their soggy grip, he really rather wishes he wasn't. A brief character study of sorts; x-posted on AO3.


Much as Anthony Lockwood might project a demeanour of constant confidence, self-possession and a brilliant light from his teeth (he does enjoy brushing, and flossing, and all other exciting forms of dental hygiene) – the truth remains that he is a teenager. He is one who has seen far more than he really should have had to, and has battled all manners of demons – inner and outer alike, but that does not change his core. He is still a boy in his youth, and he is beginning to discover _feelings_ , which might explain why he is currently huddled on the step at his own back door, shielding a bouquet from the rain and wondering, morosely, why he had to leave the keys on the table.

He raises his head, as if sensing a presence. Not a Visitor, though – one far more friendly, albeit one he currently disagrees with the existence of.

"You should at _least_ start from the beginning," A. Lockwood of Lockwood & Co says, crossly blowing some rain off his soggy hair. And then, to himself, he mutters something about how the awning would be providing better shelter if only Lucy had completed the repairs like she said she would.

Oh – he's turning pink. And now he's burying his face into the crook of his elbow, taking extra special care to keep the bouquet dry, even at the cost of his fancy coat.

"Stop it," he mumbles through fleece and his arm. "Go and tell your story, I've got a storm to wait out. Shoo."

How uncharacteristically crabby our suave charmer is today. What a _wet blanke –_

" _Shoo_."

Some people cannot appreciate humour. Let us start at the beginning.

* * *

Whatever the stories tell you about love, or whatever it is, it didn't happen like that.

If he had to pinpoint a specific point in time where these – these _feelings_ had started to grow, he thought maybe the Combe Carey Hall incident could stand as a likely candidate.

He had liked Lucy well enough, before that – even at her interview he had seen her fiery temperament, dignity, Talent, and had known right away that she'd make a fantastic addition to the team.

It wasn't to be said, however, that Lucy was without flaws. She could be pretty uppity about things, if you caught her in the wrong mood, or she just hadn't had enough sleep that night. She was sometimes secretive, and this – combined with her capacity for acting on her instincts first and only thinking later – often spelt a recipe for disaster. Exhibit A, Annabel Ward. And she had a dreadful habit of not doing the repairs when she was supposed to. All in all, living with Lucy could get pretty hard, especially when she and George started on at each other about something or the other. Lockwood stayed out of _those_ altercations – he provided the house, they could settle the chores.

But there is a very big difference between peaceably liking somebody and having to consciously remind yourself to breathe evenly when she leans in too close. Lockwood is not one for indignity, or trifling concerns, or anything as silly as _feelings_. Reluctantly, he may admit that this is the reason that whatever action on his part that has been forthcoming has not, in fact, come forth, for so very long.

But he could not deny, post-Combe Carey, that he admired how her quick thinking and reflexes had saved them. She had had the unenviable job of sealing the Source with seven ghastly Visitors closing in on them from all sides, and when he had seen her, ghost-locked and malaise-ridden, about to tip into the well – even Lockwood would be hard-pressed to deny the magnitude of the seize of terror that gripped him. Back then, he'd chalked it up to the fact that anybody would feel terrified at the thought that their colleague might be punting themselves to certain death. In retrospect, however, he had to admit that there was something else there.

And then the trouble started – Lockwood began noticing weird things, like the way Lucy wore exactly three bobby pins to keep her hair out of her face on a daily basis.

* * *

It was a Thursday in fall, and Lockwood had been up since dawn, teaching Floating Joe who was boss. He practiced one ward-knot, and then the next, and then began to rehearse joining them up into combinations – the ghost would be here, and then there, and _thwack_ – Joe's strawy arm came flying off at an angle, straight into Lady Esmeralda's head. There was a satisfying noise of impact, following which there was nothing but Lockwood's shallow breathing and the gentle oscillation of the battered straw dummies.

Having caught his breath, Lockwood fairly blinked away the sweat from his hours of exertion, then shifted stance and sheathed his rapier. One of the others could take care of Joe's casualty later. He listened for a moment, then smiled in satisfaction when he heard the distant sounds of puttering and a kettle set to boil. George was up, then. This was good. Lockwood could do with some breakfast.

As he ascended the stairs into the kitchen, Lockwood inadvertently found thoughts of brown hair creeping into his head. These thoughts were the aimless sort – just flashes of images, like hair damply curling near a girl's chin after a shower, the same hair being parted neatly towards the left and secured away from the face with exactly three bobby pins, the hair being attached to a certain person named –

"Oof, Lockwood, watch it. Was just about to go get you for breakfast, but you've made it easier by appearing."

Lockwood, startled out of his post-workout haze, blinked and righted himself from where he had jolted back imperceptibly out of surprise. Lucy Carlyle's eyes were boring right into his from her vantage point a whole step above, and she was leaning a bit too close. And now she was blinking repeatedly, her eyes narrowing a little bit as if trying to fathom a slightly irritating puzzle. "Oy, Floating Joe got your tongue?"

Fully regaining his composure, Lockwood drew himself up to his full height and easily slid past Lucy in one movement. The usual smile was on his face. "Of course not – I was just admiring the way you've opted for one less hair pin today. The overall impact is great, of course, absolutely _revolutionises_ your look." His tone was light, and clearly in the manner of good-natured jest; from the stove, George snorted appreciatively and turned off the kettle, before commencing the sacred ceremony of brewing tea out of Pitkins Brothers teabags. Only the best for our motley crew, of course.

But Lucy was giving Lockwood that stare of hers again, the oddly fixed one where she was concentrating so hard one of her eyebrows (the left, Lockwood thought absently) started twitching. Even as he slipped nonchalantly into the chair opposite Lucy's and acknowledged George's contributions with a "thank you, George", he felt the weight of her gaze on him. So eventually Lockwood looked up to meet her eyes, which were fairly bulging in a not quite attractive manner. Privately he wondered what it was that had – no pun intended – possessed him to place this girl and her godforsaken hair on his mind. Publicly he tilted his head slightly, gave a half-pout briefly in reaction to her unrelenting expression, and questioned her. "Why're you looking at me like that? You could give the jar-ghost a run for his money if you keep that up."

Lucy did not rise to the provocation. "For your information," she stated quite flatly, "I can't find the last one and I'm all out of them. A tragic event I was going to remedy later, when I went grocery shopping. But more importantly – " Here Lucy shifted so she was leaning backwards in the chair, arms crossed on her stomach as she fixed Lockwood with what was now a suspicious squint. "How did you even _notice_?"

He had not been paying attention, preoccupied as he had become with his donuts and balancing the exact ratio of sugar to tea. Lockwood hummed distractedly in response. "Notice what, Luce?"

"My hair pins, of all things, Lockwood. Are you quite alright? It's not every day you pay attention to anything, least of all hair accessories. I'm beginning to think we need to send you for a check-up." She turned to the third member of their group as he joined them at the table. "George, don't you think there's something wrong? Maybe we really ought to get him checked. Taxi!"

George turned to look at Lockwood, who had by now noticed his folly and was a little bit too fixated on his sugar-tea ratio to have been completely earnest about it. Raising his eyebrows knowingly, he leaned in close to Lockwood in a pretend inspection before turning back to Lucy. In a pompous, faux-doctor-y tone he announced, "The list of problems is too long. Would you rather request a list of what _isn't_ wrong? That would only take a minute." The two devolved into snickers.

Despite his inner self desiring very strongly to don a cape and fly away to explore new lands where Lucy and George could never again laugh at his mistakes, Lockwood outwardly managed to maintain a veneer of moderate indifference. But he needed to make his escape, pronto. So he grandly finished off his donut with as much grace as one possibly could, swiped his half-full mug, and made his excuses before zipping into the library to, quote, "Research…ghosts." He'd really gone there to mope about his mistake, but the others didn't need to know that, although, judging by the raised eyebrows, his claim of research was dubious enough.

Lockwood sank into an armchair, wondering what it was that had come upon him so suddenly. Perhaps it was just exhaustion. Yes, he concluded, he'd been up for ages practicing his rapier work, so it was no wonder he was acting strange. Perhaps all he needed was a good nap. He proceeded to polish off his drink and head upstairs to do just that, and when he passed by the kitchen, Lucy and George had fallen oddly silent, and were both staring at him, slightly googly-eyed.

Unfazed, Lockwood had smiled brilliantly at them, waved grandly, and elegantly swooped up the stairs to his room where he proceeded to have a three-hour nap. And that, Lockwood thought, was that.

Still, his relief when Lucy showed up the next day with her usual hairstyle exactly in place was pretty palpable.

* * *

Then there was the incident of Lucy Getting Ghost-Touched. It was a pretty silly incident, really, and Lockwood was privately impressed that anybody ('anybody' being all three of them, really) could mess up to that extent, but nonetheless it had rattled him a little bit.

It had been a pretty simple job. From accounts it sounded like it shouldn't be anything more than two Type Ones, and it didn't seem like much research was necessary. So our jolly trio hadn't expected very much trouble. But things rarely happen so smoothly.

At an hour to midnight, here they were, sitting idly in an iron circle in the room of the supposed manifestation. It was a study of sorts, and half-open books were strewn all over the table, doubtless after a hasty escape made the previous day. The owners had recently moved in, but the husband, a Mr Amberley, had reported feeling presences in the room. Out of the corner of his eye, he'd said, he could almost make out two patches of air that were darker than the rest, and it was this that caused him to leap over the table and out of the study.

"Not much to go on, ey," George had commented, crunching on an apple.

"Indeed!" Lockwood had agreed merrily, "But it doesn't seem like this'll take long. Seal the Sources of the Type Ones, and we could get home in time to have a snack before bed!"

Lucy didn't share Lockwood's optimism. "That's _if_ things go as planned, and let's face it – that hardly ever – did you hear that?!" Her face had turned white, and her hand had flown to her rapier.

"What, the sound of George's mandible enjoying itself?" Lockwood clearly hadn't. But that was often the case, when the others had poorer Hearing than Lucy.

Amidst George's ensuing apology and the stuffing of an apple core into some undesirable portion of his pants, Lucy started. "There it is again. A whispering, but it's indistinct – no words."

There was a thump. A book had flown straight across the room to smack against the adjacent wall, narrowly missing George's head. "Poltergeist!" he exclaimed, looking around wildly.

"I thought you said Type Ones," Lucy muttered under her breath.

" _I_ thought _you_ guys said there wasn't any need to research!" George cried, defensive.

"Well, _I_ think we should all calm down. They feed on negative emotions, you know that." Lockwood was ever the reasonable figure. The other two quietened down, and scanned the room for any potential sources.

And then a whirlwind started. First it was the paper, slowly picking up speed and whipping around the room in a flurry that severely restricted their fields of vision. Then the books followed, and with that the manner of knick-knacks that had been placed in the study.

"I think I see it!" George said suddenly, adjusting his spectacles on his nose and squinting against the buffeting wind. "Look, over there." True enough, there was a cuckoo clock hanging on the wall that looked visibly older than the rest of the items in the room, and it was glowing faintly with Other Light.

"You'd think people wouldn't keep suspicious dusty old things in the house," Lucy muttered. "Would save us all a lot of trouble. But anyhow, I'll get it. You guys cover me, okay?" And with that, she stepped out of the protective iron circle, making a beeline straight for the offending Source. The boys hurriedly tripped along, batting book and paper out of the way so Lucy didn't get slapped in the head.

It was pretty hard to see, given everything flying around and constantly battering the trio. Lucy had grabbed a chair and was just now climbing on it so she could reach the clock, and the boys positioned themselves on either side of her to continue shielding her from the onslaught of literary materials. As Lockwood knocked a paperweight out of the way, however, he noticed a picture frame, glowing in the same curious way as the clock, spiralling towards the three of them.

Three things happened, in quick succession. Lucy cast a silver net over the clock as she wrestled it off the wall. Lockwood shouted a warning as he angled his rapier to knock the frame out of the way. And, at the very same time, a Visitor emerged from it, its arm passing directly into Lucy's shoulder.

Time resumed. The items that had been flying haphazardly around the room suddenly stopped and fell to gravity where they were. The Visitor, a Type One, had recoiled into its Source when touched by the silver-tipped rapier, and Lockwood had instantly cast a net over it. Lucy jolted forward and nearly landed face-first, twisting midway to hit the ground sideways while she held the clock tightly in her grip.

George straightened up and brushed himself off, relieved that the onslaught was over. "Whew. That was surprising, but I'm glad we all made it out intact. Good job, Lockwood & Co! Wait, what? You two, what're you doing on the ground?"

"Lucy's been ghost-touched!" hissed Lockwood, tenderly prodding the area around her shoulder. "Hurry, we've got to contact DEPRAC and get her to the hospital." No sooner had he said the words 'ghost-touched' than had George sped off to make the necessary calls. Lockwood tried to shift Lucy into a more comfortable position, and ended up propping her up with her good shoulder against the wall. "You still with us, Luce? How's it feel?"

Lucy wasn't in much of a mood to talk, but she humoured him anyway. "Like death," she grouched. "The bloody medics better come soon, I think I'm gonna pass out."

"Hey, hey, hey – don't leave me just yet, alright?" Lockwood joked, gently punching her in the side. Out of the corner of her eye, Lucy caught sight of Lockwood's expression – his mouth was kind of stuck in a smile, like he was trying too hard to keep positive. "And don't pass out – that's dangerous stuff."

"I wouldn't dream of making you worry," Lucy grunted, and in the moonlight shafting through the windows, he thought he almost saw her cheeks colour faintly. " _Please_ tell me the adults have arrived."

There was a clomping of feet, and George was in the doorway. "They're nearly here!" Outside, the distant wail of sirens could be heard.

The two boys helped her to her feet despite her insistence that she could walk by herself (ghost-touch spread quickly, and Lucy was incredibly stubborn) and handed her over to the medics, who had just arrived.

Lockwood swayed a little bit, stopping just short of fussing as Lucy got her jab and was bundled up in a blanket and given hot tea. "She'll be alright, right?" he queried of the medic. "It hasn't spread much?" he asked yet another.

The medic, a middle-aged lady with kind eyes, peered at him knowingly. "Quite alright, dear. You got her to us plenty early. But we'd like to bring her to the hospital, just in case. Would you two lovely boys want to come along?"

Lockwood glanced behind him, to where George was dutifully recounting the happenings to Inspector Barnes, who then sent his disposal team into the house to recover the Sources and send them for incineration. "That would be great," he offered thankfully.

But no sooner had he said that than could the sound of Lucy's protests be heard. "I don't _want_ to go! I'll be fine! I'm an agent, see? It was just a touch! Look – I'm touching you! Aren't _you_ fine? Can I go now?" There was the sound of a medic trying to reason with her, but very few people can argue with Lucy Carlyle.

Lockwood decided to step in. Placing a hand on Lucy's shoulder, he said, "Luce – just go. George and I will follow you there. It's better, you know."

Lucy turned around, eyes blazing, all ready to fight him on it, but there must have been something in his gaze that made her reconsider her stance. In an instant it was like all the fight had gone out of her, and she slumped over, slightly dejectedly. Perhaps it was also that the events of the night were catching up to her, and she was tired. "Alright," she muttered. "I'll go. But you two better not abandon me."

It wasn't till later that Lockwood realised that Lucy was a little bit scared of hospitals, and a lot scared of having to admit that.

* * *

And from there the little things had started piling up, and soon Lockwood found his mind entertaining strange notions of _courting_ her. Courting Lucy Carlyle! Why, just the other day, the three of them had seen a young couple holding hands in the street, and she'd scoffed in annoyance about how they were in the way. Lockwood shuddered to think of how she might treat any advances on his part. She'd probably laugh at him, he thought glumly.

And this whatever-it-was was affecting his wit, too. On a recent case, she'd made a jibe at him and he was momentarily caught by the way her eyes just brightened up when she was making fun of you. This caused him to completely miss his cue to retort, and ended up with Lucy snickering and jabbing him, making a dazed-fish expression in mockery every time their gazes met.

She wasn't even pretty, he thought gloomily to himself, but he had it _so bad_.

It turned out that George had long noticed, and now couldn't leave him alone about it. He'd saunter into Lockwood's study and make a comment about how Lucy went to the park because she needed some air, and _wouldn't it be nice if she had somebody to go with?,_ or give him smarmy looks over her head when the three of them were in the same room.

Honestly, Lockwood wasn't sure what George had been telling the skull, either, because he was pretty sure it'd made a kissy face at him when he walked by that one time. He could only hope the skull hadn't told Lucy anything – that would be dreadful.

At last came a day, just a week ago, when George called him for "a serious talk". This took place in Lockwood's study, with George perched precariously on the sofa arm (why he refused to actually sit down on it, Lockwood didn't know). It went something like this:

"Lockwood. I think you should tell her."

A splutter; tea sprays inelegantly across the table. Coughing. And then, too brightly: "Tell who what?"

Groaning in disgust. "Oh, and you have the gall to call me gross. You know what I'm talking about. Luce. Go tell her, I can't stand your moony eyes any longer."

"M- _Moony eyes_?! Surely you've got the wrong person. I am an embodiment of the sun and other strong, confident, warm things. The moon would never be a look on me."

No response; a hard glare through spectacle lenses.

"Alright, alright…" A sigh. "But I don't know how she'll take it, and it could absolutely ruin our team dynamics, you know. The business comes first. And what about you, surely you don't think – "

A sigh of exasperation. "Stop making excuses, and just listen to me, alright? I think you should tell her, that's all I'm saying." There is an unnaturally serious tinge; exit, stage left.

Despite being thoroughly determined that he would not give in to this suggestion, the discussion did strike a chord in his brain, and Lockwood found himself seriously considering it for a few days before finally deciding he would actually do something about it. It was thus that he'd fairly skipped out of the house that afternoon to go to the shops to purchase some flowers.

What he hadn't anticipated, in his haste, was that it would rain that day. Neither had he remembered his keys. He had intended to sneak in by the back door so he could plan his approach with greater tactical detail, but when he'd reached it just as the downpour intensified, he'd realised his great mistake. Slumping dejectedly on the step, he ran through his options – George was at the library, he knew, and he'd rather perish from being eaten alive by a ghost (never mind the fact that they didn't _actually_ eat people) than let Lucy discover him like this. At least the rain was stopping; soon he'd be able to try to get in by the front door.

But now there was the sound of a lock being undone, and in a brief moment (forgetting his dignity) he gratefully turned to look at the person who had unlocked the door, only to stare straight into the eyes of Lucy Carlyle, who was carrying a stepladder and a box of tools. On her part, she stared blankly at him, then slowly looked up to the awning, wonky and letting in far more water than it should. Her gaze slowly travelled back down to him, and then her face broke into a sheepish smile. She held up the toolbox in apology. "Sorry?" she ventured.

Lockwood hastily got to his feet, dusting himself off as bad as he could. Despite his best efforts, both he and the bouquet were soaked. Feeling like an absolute fool, he'd half-hidden it behind his back, hoping she wouldn't notice them in the sorry state they were in. Maybe, he thought in resignation, he'd try again some other time.

Unfortunately, despite having pretty poor Sight, Lucy had pretty sharp sight. Bluntly, she pointed behind him. "What's that you've got there?" she asked, tilting her head slightly. As an afterthought, she added: "And you're soaking wet – what were you _doing_ at our back door?"

 _This is it,_ thought Lockwood solemnly, _there is no going back now. This is the way I end; not with a bang but with a whimper_. Internal melodrama aside, he half-heartedly swung the soggy flowers in front of him. "Um, these are for you, Luce."

Lucy was turning slightly red now, he was sure of it. But her expression didn't change; she stared at the flowers in what looked to Lockwood like equal parts disbelief and confusion. "This is bizarre," she commented, at length. "What…what for?"

This was his grand chance to escape. He could still make up a strange excuse, like _oh Lucy, don't be silly! You're employee of the month!_ and get away with it. Anthony Lockwood might live to see another day.

But the rain was in his bones and he was going to catch a cold and before he could really catch himself, he'd stumbled an awkward step closer and blurted out a very inelegant "Because I think I fancy you."

The look on Lucy's face made Lockwood want to curl up and die. Figuring he truly had nothing to lose now, he weakly jiggled the flowers again, beckoning her to take them, and flashed a dim, 100-watt version of his usual smile.

He must've looked an awful sight indeed. The usually impeccable teen was soaked through and through, his characteristically floppy wavy hair now plastered to his head in a manner decidedly reminiscent of a soaked puppy. When he shifted his weight a faint squelching sound could be heard coming from his shoes, and the boy himself had turned such a pale shade from cold that if it had been later, one might have been tempted to scream and call Lockwood & Co for help.

But after a few beats, just when Lockwood was ready to pretend absolutely nothing had happened, there was a 'clunk' as the toolbox was set down, and suddenly he had a faceful of hair and a warm embrace despite all his sloshy embarrassment. Lockwood dropped the bouquet in surprise; after a second, he slowly brought his arms around Lucy's waist. There was some sort of vibration along his collarbone – he realised it was Lucy laughing into the crook of his neck, and felt his heart swell with emotion.

They stayed like that for a few moments, before Lucy finally pulled away just enough to look him straight in the eye and call him "a completely daft bugger" with so much fondness he almost had to look away. Before he could formulate a sufficient response, she'd retreated altogether and taken his hand instead, backing away to pull him into the house, gruffly remarking that he must be freezing, what kind of idiot forgets their house keys and gets soaked in the rain by their own back door?

Her hand was warm. Lockwood shifted his wrist so their fingers interlaced, and together they entered 35 Portland Row. The back door swung closed; the awning was wonky, and a soggy bouquet lay by the back door, forgotten but not without having served its purpose.

(Later that night, Lucy fetched the flowers, and dried them to preserve the memory.)

(She joked, however, that it wasn't quite the same, considering how soaked they had been when presented to her. Lockwood still flushes when she talks about it, and George laughs all the same.)


End file.
